


baby just say yes

by buttcasino



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Eliot's canonical virgin kink, M/M, Margo and Julia are here and brief mention of others but, Marriage Proposal, Post-Canon, Taco Bell, Valentine's Day, brief Quames mention because of course, this is mostly just Queliot baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:14:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29446125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttcasino/pseuds/buttcasino
Summary: It's Valentine's Day and Quentin and Eliot are "taking it slow." Sort of.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 17
Kudos: 120





	baby just say yes

**Author's Note:**

> I really just couldn't resist writing something for these goofs for Valentine's Day. They are ridiculous and I love them. 
> 
> Sometimes it's so nice to just have a one-off idea that just comes to you!
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

“Ugh, Valentine’s Day is a stupid, commerical holiday,” Quentin declares. “It’s like, the worst parts of society rolled into one.” 

This statement is prompted by a flier in the penthouse mailbox, advertising discount rates for Valentine chocolates from a local sweet shop. 

“Oh god, here we go,” Julia groans. “It’s that time of year again.” 

Eliot has in fact heard Quentin rail against the perceived horrors of Valentine’s Day before. But this year was different. This year, this Valentine’s Day, he and Quentin are _together_. 

“It’s just stupid,” Quentin grumbles. “Like, oh wow, nothing says romance than enforced gift giving and corny greeting cards.” 

Julia laughs and gives Eliot a look, and when Quentin steps into the kitchen, she pulls Eliot aside.

“Hey, don’t listen to him. He talks a big game about hating Valentine’s Day, but he’s never really had anyone to celebrate with. I know he really would love it if you did something.” 

“Ah,” Eliot says. “Okay. Noted.”

He actually _had_ been thinking about doing something. But nothing too wild. The relationship was still new. In this iteration. Technically, their relationship was decades old. But this time around, it hadn’t been very long at all. 

Eliot had been possessed and Quentin had been dead. Then he wasn’t. And he’d broken up with Alice and come to Eliot a few weeks later with a serious expression on his face and declared that they needed to talk. 

So, they’d talked. And kissed. And decided that yeah, they wanted to give this a shot. 

“But, um, I don’t want to like, pressure you into anything?” Quentin had insisted. “We can, you know, take it slow.” 

Eliot had nodded. He would have agreed to anything Quentin had said at that point. Sure, taking it slow. Sounds great. 

Having never been in the kind of relationship where they _took it slow_ before, he wasn’t really sure what to expect. Apparently, taking it slow when you live in the same apartment as the person you’re…dating? Is that what they were doing? goes something like: they went out to dinner or to the movies, or for a walk in the park, and they laughed and held hands on the way back to the penthouse. 

And they’d kiss in the elevator, and some more once they got into the apartment, and then Eliot would walk Quentin to his bedroom door, and kiss him and kiss him, until they were both hard and gasping, and then Quentin would reluctantly pull away and say “okay, well, goodnight? Um, I had—a really nice time.”

And then he’d go into his room and Eliot would go to his and he’d jerk off, wondering if Quentin was doing the same thing across the hall. 

This had gone on for a few dates, and then one night they’d made a detour to the couch and wound up making out for literal hours, until Quentin was shaking and begging and Eliot had murmured soothing words and unbuttoned his pants and got his hand wrapped around Quentin’s dick. 

Quentin _needed_ it, and Eliot couldn’t deny him anything, ever again, and it’s not like hand stuff really counted anyway, right? 

And then once Quentin had come, it only made sense for him to return the favor. 

The next date they’d decided that blow jobs didn’t really count either. 

When Eliot had told Margo about this, she had scoffed.

“Okay, so correct me if I’m off the mark here, but it sounds like you guys aren’t having sex, except you are, because you decided that everything that’s not penetrative isn’t really sex? How very heteronormative and _high school_ of you.”

“Well,” Eliot blinked. “Shit.” 

Bambi was always right.

He’d put forward this line of reasoning for Quentin the next time they were in the process of fooling-around-but-not-having-sex. 

Quentin had quickly seen Margo’s point of view as well. 

“Okay, so,” he’d gasped, because at that point they were both already hard and rutting against each other through their pants like a couple of sixteen-year-olds who have never been laid. “I guess, we can just—do whatever?”

Eliot nodded. He had a lot of ideas about _whatever_. He knew Quentin did too. 

“As long as you’re okay with it. I know you were the one who wanted to take things slow—”

Quentin pushed him onto his back and straddled him. So okay then. 

“God, fuck that. I just said that because it seemed like, you know, the mature thing to do. But I'm over it.”

Eliot wholeheartedly agreed. They could still be mature about this and have sex. They're adults.

Then once they had their clothes off and Quentin was under him and Eliot was absolutely desperate to get inside of him, he’d realized—

“Oh, I don’t—do you have a condom?”

“I—oh. I mean,” Quentin gasped between kisses. “I don’t know. I forgot—”

Yeah. Eliot had, too. In Fillory, they’d never had the need for it. They’d been…together, or some version of together, at least in the sense that neither of them were fucking anyone else. That had lasted until Arielle, and then they hadn’t been together anymore, and Eliot had occasionally dabbled in hooking up with men in the village, but nothing had lasted. And then, after Arielle…when Quentin had wanted him again, that was that; he’d never looked back. 

So yeah, they’d spent roughly fifty years, on and off, sleeping with only each other, and whatever passed for Fillorian sexual protection in that time hadn’t seen the light of day in their household. 

Until Teddy had gotten old enough to start dating and surprisingly, _Eliot_ was the one who sort of lost his mind about it, and Quentin had been the one to calmly talk about being safe and respectful to your partner’s needs. One of life’s many surprises.

But now—

Quentin was still kissing him as he talked through it. 

“I…I’m not going to um, sleep with anyone else,” he murmured. “Are—are you?” 

He pulled away and bit his lip and looked so worried, like Eliot was going to say, why _yes, actually, Quentin I have a date lined up for a casual hookup later tonight when we’re done here_. God, he was so stupid sometimes. 

“No,” Eliot said. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

Quentin sighed with what sounded like relief and kissed him again.

“Oh, Okay. That’s good. Then, I guess we can just—”

He made a vague hand gesture that Eliot interpreted as _you can just fuck me now_. This turned out to be the correct interpretation. 

The next morning, when Quentin was in the shower, Eliot had padded down the hall to Margo’s room and climbed into her bed to fill her in on the latest updates. 

She was still half asleep and yawning, and absolutely exasperated with him. 

“So, you’re taking it slow, which in the Coldwater-Waugh world, means raw-dogging each other and sleeping in the same bed.” 

_Coldwater-Waugh_ Eliot thought, with a squirming feeling in his stomach, then sternly told himself to focus. 

“Raw-dogging?” he said, nose wrinkled in distaste.

Margo rolled her eyes. 

“Fine. Monogamously making love. Whatever you two weirdos are up to. Either way, sounds _very_ casual to me.”

Whatever. It wasn’t _casual_ but it wasn’t like, _weird_. They were just. Dating. Exclusively. This is how it went, right? 

And don’t people who are dating exclusively usually celebrate Valentine's Day? 

Eliot had a boyfriend _one_ year during Valentine’s Day, and it was a total dud; the guy completely forgot and tried to cover for it by throwing together a last minute gift made up of shit he’d bought at a bodega on the way to the restaurant for dinner—and he’d been late, to boot. But whatever. Eliot didn’t care, even though he’d made the reservation and taken the time to dress up _and_ had a gift already picked out weeks in advance. But it was fine. He was over it. 

Really. It _was_ stupid and corny, just like Quentin had said. 

But hey, it’s what couples did. And they were a couple. 

-

“So you’ve really never had a date on Valentine’s Day?” Eliot asks. 

He’s making breakfast and Quentin is perched on the counter, supervising. They’d woken up late after a night of _several_ rounds of orgasms, and Quentin had demanded waffles.

“Nope,” Quentin shrugs. 

Well, there’s a plus. Eliot always enjoys being Quentin’s first, in any context he can have.

“Well,” Quentin continues. “Unless you count that one year Julia had some family thing come up last minute and she couldn’t make the dinner reservation, so James had me go with him instead.”

Eliot stops dead in his tracks. 

“He what?” 

Quentin laughs. “I mean, he just didn’t want to let the reservation go to waste. It was like a really fancy restaurant? And like, yeah, we dressed up and the waiter thought we were a couple, and we sort of like, played into it, but it was just to get the free champagne. It was like, a joke, you know?” 

Eliot blinks. 

“Right. A joke.”

“James was just funny like that,” Quentin shrugs again, taking a sip of his coffee. 

Eliot has heard enough stories about _James_ to have figured out that he was not joking at all, and desperately wanted to fuck Quentin. Whether James himself realized this or not was a mystery. Quentin still somehow remained clueless. 

“Uh huh,” Eliot says, as he thoroughly whisks the waffle batter, perhaps a little harder than necessary. “And what did Julia think about this?” 

“Oh, she thought it was funny, too,” Quentin assures him. 

Hilarious. Well, more power to Julia he supposes. Couldn’t have been him, but it was years ago and also really none of his business.

Later, when Quentin and Julia are out shopping, and everyone else has fucked off to who knows where, Eliot dramatically throws himself into Margo’s lap as she lounges on the sofa. 

“So it turns out I won’t even be the first person to treat Quentin to a fancy Valentine’s Day dinner after all.” 

He regales her with the horrid details of Quentin’s story about being unwittingly seduced by his best friend’s boyfriend. 

“It’s just like, is there _no_ virginity of Quentin’s that is mine to take?” he groans. 

Margo makes a gagging noise even as she comfortingly strokes his hair. 

“Jesus fuck, El. I know that’s like a _thing_ for you, but…gross.” 

“I _know,_ ” he sighs. “He’s made an absolute idiot out of me, Bambi.”

“Oh, you were already halfway there yourself,” Margo says. 

“Thanks—wait. Hey.” 

Margo snorts out a laugh. “Look, any dipshit can take a boy out to a fancy overrated restaurant with a grand prix menu on V-Day. You’re much better than that. Stop thinking like such a basic bitch.”

Eliot frowns. She’s right, of course. 

He just has to be more creative.

“I don’t want to be too extra, though,” he sighs. “I’m not trying to scare him off.” 

“Fat chance of that. He’s absolutely dickmatized.” 

“Well,” Eliot tries not to preen. “Still. I’m trying to be. You know. Calm. Chill.” 

Margo makes a humming noise.

“Yes. That sounds very you.”

-

The solution is obviously to make dinner at home. It’s a much more laidback option, and it allows him to show off his cooking skills, of which Quentin is obviously a fan. 

The only question now is what to make. A great thing about Quentin is that he will eat pretty much anything. He’s open to trying new things, always eagerly accepting Eliot’s experimentations and new recipes. 

Simultaneously, an annoying thing about Quentin is that he will eat pretty much anything. Eliot had watched his eating habits in horror at Brakebills, and without Eliot to cook for him, Quentin will still cobble together any number of ridiculous food items and call it a meal, or order some disgusting fast food. 

Wait. Maybe that’s the answer.

This is going to require some planning. He does want this whole thing to be a surprise, so he has to enlist Julia’s help to get Quentin out of the house during the day so Eliot can prepare; she says no problem, there’s a film festival going on that they’ve been interested in checking out. 

He also ensures that everyone else is planning on clearing out of the penthouse during the evening. 

Penny and Kady have secretive Valentine’s plans elsewhere. 

“Really?” Eliot asks. “Wow.”

“What?” Penny says with a glare. 

“I mean, it just doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you two would be into.”

“Hey man, I was dead too, you know. You think I’m gonna waste an opportunity to do something nice for my girlfriend? Don’t be an asshole.” 

Fair enough. Who knew Penny was such a romantic? 

Margo, Julia, and Alice are going out for a girl’s night. 

“We’re going to get drunk and celebrate being single,” Margo declares.

Hard to imagine that only a few years ago, he would have loved to be drunk and single in a bar on Valentine's Day, looking for a casual hookup or even just a cute guy to buy him a drink. Now, the prospect of having dinner at home with Quentin is the best thing he can imagine. Ugh. Margo is right, he really is disgusting these days. 

On the morning of Valentine’s Day, Eliot is getting ready to see Quentin off for his day out with Julia, when the buzzer to their front door goes off. Someone’s outside the building. 

“Yeah, I have a delivery for Eliot Waugh?” 

“Oh? I mean, yeah, that’s me. One second.” 

He buzzes the guy in, and a minute or two later, there’s a knock at the apartment door. 

Eliot opens it to see a gigantic, gorgeous bouquet of flowers, that is completely obstructing his view of the delivery guy’s face. Well. His whole head, really. 

“Here you go,” he says, and then Eliot’s hands are full. “Happy Valentine’s Day. Guess somebody really likes you. This is the nicest one I’ve seen. Have a good one.” 

“Um. Thanks,” Eliot calls out. 

Back inside, he sets the bouquet on the counter. It really is beautiful. Roses, of course, but also some orchids and tulips, and some others Eliot can’t identify. 

There’s a card.

With trembling hands, Eliot opens it. 

_El,_

_I want to spend every day with you, even the stupid ones._

_Q_

Eliot’s throat feels tight. He blinks rapidly. Fuck, is he going to cry? No one has ever given him flowers before. 

“Oh,” says a voice behind him. “They’re here. Do you like them?” 

He turns around to see Quentin standing there with wet hair, looking hesitant. 

“I hope it’s okay. I know we didn’t talk about—but well, I wanted to do something for you. And you deserve flowers all the time, not just—”

Eliot crosses the kitchen in a few steps and kisses him. 

“They’re beautiful,” he whispers. “Thank you.”

Quentin ducks his head and smiles. “Oh. Good.” 

“I actually—I have something planned, for later,” he says, and Quentin looks back up at him eagerly. “It’s not a big deal, we’re just saying here. You don’t even have to get dressed up.” 

“Okay,” Quentin says. “It’s a date.” 

-

It’s a good thing he gave Julia strict orders to keep Quentin out of the house all day, because Eliot’s dinner becomes more complicated than he anticipated. There are a few times during the process where he considers giving up, just making an old standby that he knows he can whip up with his eyes practically closed. 

But no. Quentin deserves something special.

He manages to pull it together just in time to hop in the shower and make himself presentable. Julia texts they’re on their way back. 

Margo had wished him luck with a kiss on the lips and an order to let her know how it goes. She and Alice head out to the bar, and Julia plans to meet up with them as soon as she drops Quentin off at home. 

Eliot doesn't know why he’s nervous. It’s Quentin. They’ve had dinner together countless times. And Quentin has always loved his cooking. But this just feels different.

Quentin comes home to find the table set for two, with the bouquet he’d given Eliot as a centerpiece. Eliot himself is standing by the table, adjusting his tie for the umpteenth time. 

“Hey,” Quentin says. 

“Hey,” Eliot says back. “Um. Please—sit down, and I’ll—the food is in the kitchen,” he explains unnecessarily.

He knows he must sound like a complete wreck, but Quentin doesn’t comment. 

“Are you sure I shouldn’t change?” he asks, looking down at himself with a frown. “You look so nice, and I—”

“You look perfect,” Eliot tells him, and relishes the way it makes Quentin blush. 

He takes a seat at the table and Eliot goes to the kitchen to bring out covered dish after covered dish. He might have gone slightly overboard. Thank god for the dish heating spell that allowed him to keep everything hot, otherwise there’s no way this would’ve worked out. 

Quentin’s eyes widen. “How much did you—I mean, wow, this is—”

“You don’t have to eat it all,” Eliot explains. “The idea is—well, here. Let me just show you.” 

He lays all the plates out in front of Quentin and clears his throat. 

“So. Even though I know _James_ took you out for a fancy dinner on Valentine’s Day before—”

Quentin rolls his eyes. “El, that was nothing, I told you—”

“I know. I just. Wanted to do something for you that was. Special. And something you’ve never had before. And so, um.”

He lifts the cover on the first dish. 

Quentin laughs in surprise. 

“Um—is this…a crunchwrap from Taco Bell?” 

“Yes. And no. It’s my version of it,” Eliot shrugs. 

The Taco Bell crunchwrap is the first item of food Quentin had eaten when he’d come back to life. Several of them, actually. And so no matter how disgusting Eliot found them, he’d always have a soft spot for the memory of Quentin, alive, really alive, he was _here_ , shoving Taco Bell in his mouth and moaning with pornographic fervor.

Quentin stares down at the plate, then up at him. 

“You—you made a homemade version of—”

“Yes,” he lifts the covers on the other dishes as well, to reveal more food items. “And all your favorites from that disgusting hell hole, which I know you love for some ungodly reason.” 

Quentin is actually speechless. Eliot hopes it’s in a good way. 

“So. Happy Valentine’s Day, Q,” he says, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. 

Quentin continues to stare at the food in front of him, his mouth slightly open.

“Well, try it, at least, I have to know if it’s terrible or not,” Eliot insists. 

Quentin takes a deep breath and reaches out to pick up the crunchwrap. He brings it to his mouth and Eliot ridiculously finds himself holding his breath as Quentin takes a bite. 

He closes his eyes and swallows. A little sigh escapes his throat. 

“El,” he says, as his eyes fill with tears. “It’s _so_ good.” 

“Oh,” Eliot says, as Quentin wipes his eyes and takes another bite. “Well. I’m glad.”

“I can’t believe you’d do this for me,” Quentin sniffles. “It’s so—ooh, is that the Mexican pizza?”

Eliot smiles down at him, helplessly. “Yeah, it is.”

He sits down and watches Quentin eat, and even takes a bite here and there, at Quentin’s urging. It is pretty damn good. Eliot is proud of himself; he made Taco Bell edible. 

“I take it back,” Quentin mumbles with his mouth full. Which on anyone else, would be absolutely disgusting. But somehow, Eliot just finds it charming. “Valentine’s Day is the best.” 

-

So dinner had gone over well. Extremely well, in fact. So much so that Quentin had basically jumped him in the process of trying to do dishes, and they’d wound up making out against the counter. 

“Q, the dishes, I have to—” he’d tried to protest, and Quentin had pouted and whined enough that Eliot had just sighed and resigned himself to cleaning up in the morning. 

They wound up on the couch, Quentin in his lap, as they kiss and kiss and _kiss_. 

Quentin is such a good kisser. Or maybe it’s just that they, together, are so good at kissing each other, after years of practice. Either way, no one has ever managed to make Eliot feel this way just by kissing him. 

No one else has ever made Eliot feel this way, period. And no one else ever would. This is it, he thinks wildly. Quentin was the only person for him. And maybe they hadn’t talked about where this was going, but Eliot _knows_. 

And then, before he even realizes—

“Marry me,” Eliot murmurs against Quentin’s lips.

Quentin freezes. He pulls away, looks Eliot in the eyes, and blinks. 

“Um—what?”

Eliot is wondering the same thing. _What_?

“Sorry—” 

Quentin frowns. “Sorry?”

Fuck. This was all going so well, too. 

“I mean, no—”

“ _No_?” 

Quentin is giving him those devastating puppy dog eyes. Eliot has never been able to resist that look, on Quentin or on Teddy, who had inherited the same dark brown eyes and long lashes as his dad, and was just as skilled at using them to make Eliot feel compelled to give into whatever he wanted. 

“You let him get away with anything,” Quentin had often groaned, less charmed by Teddy’s antics than Eliot always was. “He is such a _brat_. Where does he get that from?” 

“Hm, guess we’ll never know,” Eliot laughed. 

Now, Quentin is pouting at him and Eliot doesn’t know what to do. 

“Did you mean it?” he asks, his voice small. 

Eliot strokes his hair and tucks it behind his ear.

“Q, this isn’t how I wanted to—”

Quentin deserves better than this. Quentin deserves a proposal that is incredibly romantic and thoughtful, one Eliot spent weeks planning, working obsessively on every detail. Margo’s input would be needed, obviously. This isn’t the kind of thing that should be blurted out while dry humping on the couch on _Valentine’s Day_. 

“But did you mean it? Do you…I mean, do you want—” 

Well. That’s not really the issue, is it?

“I thought we were trying to take it slow,” Eliot says. He knows he sounds desperate. 

Quentin laughs. “Yeah, because we’ve been doing so well at that. El, we couldn’t even last a like, a _week_ without having sex. We have our own rooms, because we said we needed our _space_ , but we sleep in the same bed every night. We didn’t really discuss Valentine’s Day and I mean, all I did was give you _flowers_ —”

“The flowers are perfect,” Eliot insists. “I love the flowers.”

Quentin blushes.

“Well. Good. But then you spent all day recreating the menu from a fast food place you don’t even like.” 

So much for a chill and relaxed Valentine’s dinner. Eliot had really blown it there. 

“You’re right, it was too much.” 

“Shut up, I loved it,” Quentin insists, his eyes wide. He goes up on his knees and hovers over Eliot, takes Eliot’s face in his warm, perfect hands. “I love you.”

He’s always been the brave one. Eliot can feel his heart hammering in his chest, blood rushing to his ears. _Don’t cock out here, Waugh_ , says a voice in his head that sounds exactly like Margo. 

“I love you too,” he manages to choke out. His hands drift to Quentin’s hips and settle there. 

Quentin’s eyes are so bright as he smiles down at him and then kisses him, and Eliot can feel him still smiling against his mouth. 

“So do you want to marry me or what?” he asks when he pulls away. 

“Q, that’s—we haven’t even—”

He’s quieted with a finger to his lips. Quentin’s expression is serious now, even if his eyes are no less bright. 

“Don’t overthink it. Just…do you want to? It’s okay if you don’t right now I’d understand but I—I want to. I mean, if you do. The answer is yes.”

Just a few months ago, Eliot didn’t think he’d ever see Quentin again. Never get to touch him or kiss him or hear his voice and his too-rare laugh that always made Eliot laugh too. Never get to see him grow up and grow old, for a second time. The thought of having Quentin back, whole and beautiful and _wanting him_ , and denying him, both of them, in the name of _taking things slow_ —it would have been incomprehensible. 

They’ve never done things normally. Whatever normal is, anyway. 

People did things _normally_ all the time. Like Eliot’s parents, who had hooked up in high school and then his mom and had gotten pregnant, so they’d gotten married because they had to. That was normal. And they hated each other. They’d never get divorced though, because that’s just not how it’s done. 

And Quentin’s mom and dad, who had met in college and dated for a few years and decided getting married was the most practical thing, and Quentin thinks they must have liked each other at some point, but he can’t ever remember a time when it was true. They’d been divorced longer than they’d ever been together. And now Quentin’s dad was gone and he’d never remarried, and he’d been alone. That was just how things went.

Quentin’s mom had been with the same girlfriend for awhile, so Eliot supposes that’s something, but he’s hesitant to ever give Quentin’s mom credit for much of anything, despite Quentin’s continued insistence that she’s “not that bad.” Maybe in the grand scheme of things, she isn’t, but the sin of not appreciating her loving, compassionate, and brilliant son isn’t something Eliot can lightly forgive. He’s never even met her, but she’s _high_ on his shit list.

So. It’s not like they have some great examples of normal relationships to live up to. Eliot himself has never known anything that was _normal_ to be particularly fulfilling. He’d spent a lot of time having perfectly normal, uninspiring hookups with boring guys. And Mike…well, that had been the appeal, hadn’t it? He was a nice, normal guy, handsome and kind, if nothing too awe-inspiring. A nice, normal guy who liked Eliot, and wanted to actually get to know him. Eliot had been calling him his _boyfriend_ on day one. Pathetic. The Beast sure had his number.

He and Quentin have never gone about things normally. They couldn’t have. Jane Chatwin made sure of that. And yet, the way Quentin makes him feel, from the very beginning, was so simple. Eliot could sit with Quentin in the Cottage for hours over several bottles of wine, talking about absolutely nothing, and it was a better night than if he’d gone off and found some other willing first-year to take to bed. 

The way they’d spent every single day together at the mosaic, and some days Quentin was so annoying Eliot couldn’t stand him, and some days Quentin felt the same way about him, and through it all, they’d been _happy_ …that was the most normal Eliot has ever felt. Peaceful. Like everything was how it should have been. 

Their lives weren't easy, but this, _them_ , it was easy. He just…loves Quentin. And Quentin loves him. And that’s it.

“Yes,” he says, finally. “I do.”

Quentin laughs then, giddy, and Eliot echoes him.

“This is crazy,” Quentin gasps as he presses fervent kisses to Eliot’s mouth. “I can’t believe—I mean, are you sure?”

“Oh, now you’re having second thoughts?” Eliot says as he shifts their positions to lower Quentin onto his back.

Quentin gasps when Eliot settles between his spread legs, and yeah, getting spontaneously engaged is an incredible aphrodisiac. Who knew. 

“Never,” he says, and thrusts up. 

Fuck, if they’re not careful, they’re going to end up with a repeat of a few weeks ago.

“I still—I want to do it right, I want to do a—a real proposal,” Eliot groans as Quentin sucks at his earlobe. “You deserve that.” 

“Mm,” Quentin murmurs. “Okay. But can you fuck me first? I think I deserve that, too.” 

Eliot doesn’t know how after everything, Quentin just…demanding to be fucked can still have such an impact on him. But it does. He feels like he could keel over and die from how horny it makes him. 

“You do. But let’s go to the bedroom. I want to take my time.” 

Quentin grumbles and rolls his eyes, but allows himself to be pulled off the couch. Seized by a sudden fit of zany happiness that gives him a burst of strength, too, Eliot sweeps Quentin off his feet into his arms. 

They call it a bridal carry, right? A bit premature, but appropriate. 

Quentin shrieks in what sounds like delight. It might be terror, but he’s grinning wildly, so Eliot figures he’s probably enjoying it. 

“El! What are you doing! You’re going to fuck up your back—” 

He’s not wrong. Quentin is relatively small, but he’s dense and like, surprisingly muscular—when asked, Quentin had always vaguely said he’d played soccer in high school, which, okay, hot, but also doesn’t fully explain his weirdly fit body, but whatever. And Eliot may be tall, but he has what Margo has affectionately referred to as chicken arms. 

He doesn't think he could keep this up for very long, but the bedroom isn’t that far away. Plus—

“I always knew my discipline would come in handy when I really needed it,” he says. Magic, at the end of the day, is pretty great. 

Quentin laughs and wraps his arms around his neck and Eliot power walks down the hall to his bedroom. He uses magic to open the door, and manages to lower Quentin down to the bed. It’s not very graceful, but Quentin is staring up at him adoringly anyway, so who cares.

He does end up proposing for real later, but Quentin doesn’t wait to reassure Eliot of his answer. 

“Yes,” he gasps, as Eliot moves his fingers inside him until he’s begging, and when Eliot is fucking him and they’re moving together, and Quentin is kissing him, he’s saying “yes, _yes_ ,” against his mouth and moaned into his ear, and with his head thrown back as Eliot comes inside him. 

When they’re curled up together afterwards and Eliot pulls off one of his rings and slides it on Quentin’s finger, and he asks again, Quentin says yes again, this time sniffling through his tears. 

“You know, we’re just going to have to do this all over again when I get you a real ring,” Eliot says, wiping tears from his own cheeks. 

Quentin smiles down at the ring on his finger, and then up at him.

“Can I ask you, too?”

“Sure,” Eliot says with a kiss. “Surprise me, okay?”

“Yeah,” Quentin sighs. “Okay.”

-

“Ew, you losers got engaged on _Valentine’s Day_?” Margo groans even as she clinks her celebratory champagne flute against theirs. “El, no offense, but that’s disgusting.”

It is. It’s completely disgusting. The most tacky thing in the world. 

Eliot couldn’t be happier. 

“Bambi, if it makes you feel any better, by the time I actually asked properly, it was past midnight. So technically, we got engaged on February 15th. Perfectly acceptable.” 

Margo rolls her eyes and takes a huge gulp of her champagne. 

Quentin beams at him. Eliot has to kiss him.

“Wait, you did _what_?” Julia shrieks as she enters the kitchen. “You’re _engaged_?” 

“Oh fuck,” Eliot hears Penny groan. “I’m moving out.”

Quentin laughs into this kiss and Eliot pulls him closer. Just for one more moment. 

Then, they’ll go celebrate with their friends. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the re-release of "Love Story" just in time for Valentine's Day, Taylor.
> 
> Personally, someone recreating the Taco Bell menu from scratch is the pinnacle of romance. Quentin and I have that in common.


End file.
